


One Day We'll Get the Fuck Out of Here, I Promise

by Waypaststrange



Category: Carmilla (Web Series), Carmilla - All Media Types
Genre: Carmilla's way too nice in this, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Other, dealing with l'homophobie, shitty beach town au, this is my first story y'all and I'm just a little bit terrified, tiptoeing out of the closet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-05 15:15:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5379947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waypaststrange/pseuds/Waypaststrange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A shitty beach town au in which Laura is the daughter of a pastor and trying to tiptoe out of the closet, Carmilla's the best friend just trying to keep her together, the sun's too hot, the salt gets in everything, and it seems like the world's out to get them. But they're just biding time until they can get the hell out, anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Screeeeeee this is my first story on AO3 (and my first in the Carmilla fandom)! I'm excited/terrified/really really new to this. Who's ready for some femslash?!  
> Prompt: "But I want a plot where they live in a shitty little beach town and their home lives are horrible and their parents are hardly ever around to tell them what to do so they just do whatever they please. They sneak out and immediately head towards the other's house and then they both proceed to roam the streets until the wee hours of the morning. They go to parties and concerts and drink and get high and fall asleep on the beach after a night of watching the stars. They skate and surf and wear whatever shirt smells the cleanest that they picked up from their bedroom floors and eat at a tiny little diner in the middle of town almost every night. And while they deny it at first the two are madly in love because it's always been them against the world and they've made a pact that one day they'll get out of the shitty little beach town together or not at all."

Carmilla can see Laura standing on the dock from her window, barely lit by moonlight and stars and distant street-lamps. Long strands of golden-brown hair and thin white fabric twist and flutter on the sea breeze as she remains, stiff and motionless and overlooking the water. She imagines her toes curling over the edge of the dock’s rough-hewn, wooden planks; she imagines the faraway look her eyes must hold. She imagines the twin trails that silent tears trace down her cheeks and drip-drip-drip onto the cold wood and down, down further to mingle with the waves.  
She presses her forehead to the glass and huffs out a sigh. Us against the world is a lot bigger pill to swallow when the world decides to take a swing, she thinks.

**FOUR YEARS EARLIER**

They’re fourteen when she first promises Laura.

They’re sitting cross-legged on Carmilla’s bed, and her window is cracked half an inch to let the warm summer breeze in, carrying with it the tang of salt that seeps into everything in this goddamned town.  
And Laura’s eyes are wider with fear than she’s ever seen them.  
“Laura, just _tell_ me,” she muffles out behind the hands over her face. “Unless you’re hurting yourself or doing some illegal shit, I won’t care.”

She parts the fingers covering her eyes to look hard at Laura, sincere in the way she rarely is. “Us against the world, remember?”

And Laura, daughter of the town pastor, honey-blonde angel incarnate, the biggest goody-two-shoes Carmilla’s ever known, squeaks out, “I’m gay!” and buries her face in her hands, hiccuping out a half-sob.

Her heart decides now is a good time to leap directly into her throat, and her mind backs this decision, because Laura _fucking Hollis_ is gay, and Carmilla’s dead, she’s so dead. She’s never lied to Laura about being gay herself; never properly came out but that never mattered because Laura knows she’s about as straight as a circle and has never thrown her father’s words at Carmilla for it. And everything had been fine.  
But now Laura’s joined her disappointing-the-family club and she doesn’t know what the fuck she’s supposed to do about it. She knows what she wants to do, but that’s a different thing entirely.

She shrugs off these thoughts for now, however, because Laura is crying on her monochrome sheets and that’s something she won’t stand for. Crawls forward on her knees and pries Laura’s hands from her face, voice going soft when she asks, “Cupcake, of all people, you thought I would be bothered by you being gay?” Soft, like her voice has only ever gone for Laura.

“I know, I know, it’s stupid,” Laura says, voice choked, “but it’s really really hard to say it. It took me so long just to say it to myself.” All of a sudden, she’s shaking her hands from Carmilla’s grip and flinging arms around her.  
She stiffens, but the mental image of Laura sitting in front of her mirror and choking on those three words over and over, trying so so so hard just to say them to herself while, down the hall, her father slumbers next to the book he uses to tear down people like her, is enough to send her hands moving to splay across Laura’s back and thread through her hair softly. Cool tears bleed watery circles onto her shirt, some bold-printed proclamation of one band or another, but she doesn’t really care.  
When Laura’s chest stops heaving, Carmilla pulls back to look her in the eyes, fingers curled around her shoulders. Brown, earnest eyes stare into bleary red ones. “We’re gonna get out of this shitty town one day, I promise. Together.”


	2. Chapter 1: The Start of Something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we get more characters and in which Laura is depressed and Carmilla is too nice and we get our first taste of l'homophobie from Papa Hollis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to name each chapter after quirky indie song titles. Not sure how well this one fits, but gotta start somewhere, right? (Song's by Voxtrot, and rather lovely)

It’s six in the morning. Much too early for anything, by Carmilla’s standards, especially in the summer. Laura’s curled up against her underneath her dark blankets, the way they always seem to end up when one of them manages to sneak out of the house and into the other’s after dark. This is the only way she likes to sleep, with Laura’s fingers curled into fists in her shirt. The distant shrieks of seagulls combing the beach and the shush of the incoming tide fall on two pairs of deaf ears.  
But it’s Sunday, and Laura’s phone reminds them rather noisily of this fact, filling the previously quiet bedroom with a shriek of sound akin to a police siren. While Laura scrambles to snooze the offending object, Carmilla half-heartedly attempts at sitting up before falling back onto her pillow with a huff. She opens one eye to see Laura rifling through her closet. “Lauura…” she half-whines, an elongated, two-syllable plea for her to ignore prior engagements and go back to sleep at least until noon.  
But it’s Sunday, and that means church. Being the daughter of a pastor doesn’t allow for much leniency on the Sabbath, Carmilla knows, watching through half-lidded eyes as Laura gives her a pointed look and hurriedly dresses in one of Carmilla’s less colorless shirts and a pair of her jeans. Coming out or no coming out, Sunday means church.  
She sits up as Laura reaches for the doorknob, preparing to tiptoe past the other occupied rooms in the house. “Are you okay?” She asks, and the look in Laura’s eyes is enough to pique her concern.  
“Yeah,” Laura whispers, and she doesn’t sound especially sure, but Carmilla lets her go anyway. 

She's just gotten back to sleep, much more fitfully without Laura pressing into her side, when her phone buzzes angrily on the bedside drawer. She scrabbles for it with lazy fingers.

 **Creampuff (7:38 am):** Can you come meet me down by the beach?

 **Carmilla (7:39):** Yeah, hang on

 **Carmilla (7:42):** Everything okay?  
**Carmilla (7:43):** I thought church didn’t get out for another half hour

Laura’s curled in on herself in the wet sand when Carmilla finds her, shoes long since flung and forgotten on higher ground. She kneels next to her as Laura turns her tear-stained face toward her.

“Hey, creampuff,” she whispers.

“Hey.” Laura’s voice is almost swallowed up by the sound of the waves. 

“Any particular reason you’re skipping out on church? Didn’t think the pastor’s daughter was allowed to do that.” She’s hoping for a weak smile, but she doesn’t get one.

Laura sniffs and swipes at her eyes, but she’s still quiet and choked. “He was up there, calling it an abomination, and I just,” she exhales shakily and it breaks Carmilla’s self-proclaimed black heart, “I just couldn’t listen anymore.” Her hands twist and tangle in her lap as she falls silent.

Carmilla sighs and offers her a hand. “Come on, cupcake. Let’s go cheer you up.”

The sun is high overhead when they reach the diner. They usually only come to The Wallflower (a rather fitting name for its usual customers) after dark, but Laura looks like she could use some high-fructose corn syrup (it always seems to work). The bells above the door ring softly as they enter, and the sounds of soft music seep from the ceiling speakers.  
It’s blessedly dark inside, a sharp contrast to the world outside the cafe windows, where the too-close sun lords over burning asphalt and sweltering, heavy air. Laura sinks wearily into a corner booth, sitting with a huff on the worn leather, and Carmilla slides in beside her with a brief, furtive glance. Within a few moments, two familiar gingers are bustling over in too-large aprons. 

Perry at least pretends to be taking their order while LaFontaine sits across from them. “Hey, guys. Didn’t expect to see you two here before nine-thirty and-” They frown. “Laura, you okay?”

Carmilla feels Laura stiffen beside her and slips a hand into hers. It’s been a rough enough morning without impromptu-coming-out, she decides, even to another LGBT person. “Just a shitty morning at church. You know how her dad gets on Sundays…”

LaF nods sagely. “Yeah.” Their eyes darken, and it seems like they’re going to say something else when Perry snaps her pen against her pad of paper and clears her throat.

“Sus- (LaFontaine gives her a pointed look) _LaFontaine_ , don’t you need to be _working_? And are you two going to actually order anything or just sit here?” Her bird-of-prey gaze softens when she looks over at Laura, who mutters something about waffles. The two of them hurry back into the kitchen and Carmilla is left there, a red-eyed Laura gripping her hand like a vice, afraid and unwilling to let go. She shifts a bit closer wordlessly and Laura’s forehead presses into her shoulder. 

“Thanks,” she mutters, muffled by Carmilla’s T-shirt. 

“No problem, cupcake. You should come out when you’re ready, not when you feel like you have to.” Laura nods and they fall into a comfortable silence until Perry and Lafontaine return with a stack of waffles and copious amounts of maple syrup.

Carmilla watches, eyebrows raised, as Laura drowns her food in syrup. “How _do_ you survive?” She asks incredulously. “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen you eat a vegetable.”  
Laura only shrugs. It’s enough of an answer, she supposes. Whatever keeps Laura floating on happiness a little longer, she tells herself, because chances are soon everything will fall to shit at some point.

When they leave the cafe and begin to wander up the streets, Laura still clings to Carmilla’s hand and she’s struck by how familiar it feels, how _right_. She has to keep reminding herself to stop when her mind drifts to _what if it could always be like this _and _maybes_ , remind herself that Laura’s not hers. They’re friends, and she can be okay with that.  
She can be okay with that, she tells herself, but it gets harder and harder to believe it.__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please please please tell me what you think of this, because I am oh-so-new to this and love love love feedback and some sort of assurance that people like to read my drivel. Thanks, lovelies!


	3. Chapter 2: Fine For Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is gay pride and some tears but mostly rainbows and in which summer passes the way we wish it did for all of us and in which Clifford makes her first appearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought today was deserving of another, slightly longer chapter, and good lord I should really be going to sleep. (Chapter title comes from a song by Grizzly Bear). Sorry these first few chapters are quite short, I'm hoping to lengthen them to at least 5,000 words each soon, but for these first few more introductory ones, they probably won't hit that mark (most of this story is going to take place from the end of their sophomore year onward, so we should be there in another chapter or two).

They’ve settled into their summer routine within a week: Every night, one of them (usually Laura) sneaks over to the other’s house and they set off downtown until around 3. They’ve likely spent at least two hundred dollars at the Wallflower by now, not that they’re keeping track (or receipts). After the place closes at ten, they go out and wander the streets for hours or stargaze or otherwise be cliches (something Carmilla harps about to no end). It’s what she’s used to, what she won’t admit she loves but what is infinitely better than either of their home lives (or lack thereof). But it feels different, hurts a little more when Laura presses close to her on a threadbare blanket on the sand and demands Carmilla trace the galaxies for the umpteenth time, when she threads a mysteriously acquired dandelion into Carmilla’s hair, just behind her ear, fingers tickling her skin, steps back and admires her handiwork with a grin so infectious that Carmilla can’t bring herself to take it out. It’s worth it, she reminds herself. Whatever she has to do to keep Laura dragging her along like a lovesick puppy.  
Their birthdays pass uneventfully. Tides rise and fall. Laura drags her ass up the hill to church every Sunday and every once in a while, Carmilla has to deal with the fallout of Papa Hollis’s sermons. Carmilla avoids her mother with a surprising amount of success; Laura hides things from her father and tries to pretend it doesn’t matter to her. Laura ends up in Carmilla’s bed most nights, and she can’t stop herself from wanting it to mean _more_ , wishing that phrase meant something else. She ticks off day after day on a calendar she doesn’t keep, watching every sunrise-and-subsequent-set pass during which she follows after Laura wherever she goes.

 

It’s the day of the Supreme Court ruling and Carmilla’s just finished striping her forearm in rainbow colors, vibrant lines of ink curling around radius and ulna, when Laura texts her.

**Creampuff (9:16):** Can you come save me?

**Creampuff (9:17):** Dad just found out about the ruling and he’s being awful 

And the left sleeve of Carmilla’s leather jacket is tugged over all those lines of color.

Laura’s father stopped being surprised by Carmilla showing up at his doorstep long ago. He doesn’t even blink when he opens the door, just ushers her in. “Laura’s upstairs,” he says, returning to his seat at the dining room table. “She seemed upset about something earlier,” he calls after her, and the worry is clear in his voice. 

Carmilla knows there’s no malice behind his homophobia. He’s not out to burn all the pride flags or the people that wave them; he’s just one of the millions swept along in the unfortunate tide of intolerance that stems from misunderstanding. A few mistranslated lines in an old book are what keep him from acceptance, and it makes her more sad than anything else. It makes her pity him.  
But Laura can’t be as removed as she is. She can’t detach meaning from the words he says, can’t pity her father. And that’s why Carmilla goes up to Laura’s room and knocks softly at the door and lets her cry on her shoulder, hands her tissues and takes her downtown, where a block or two of stores are flying pride flags.  
She takes the now-weakly smiling Laura to the Wallflower, where LaFontaine and Perry (left to run the cafe by themselves (perhaps an unwise decision)) are blaring Macklemore’s Same Love and trying to bake a seven-layer rainbow cake (emphasis on trying).  
Laura’s grinning when she dabs red frosting onto Carmilla’s nose and laughing when Carmilla chases her out of the kitchen, trying to return the favor in saffron-yellow. She's buzzing with happiness by the time the four of them sample whatever it is they’ve created, and they all manage to keep down a bite of all the colors despite the fact that the consistency is about that of a mattress.  
Carmilla watches and actually smiles when Laura tells Perry and LaFontaine that the celebration’s a bit more personal than simply support for her, and, as expected, they’ve over the moon about it, though she suspects LaFontaine’s more excited about all the resulting puns they’ll get to make. Not that any of them see her smile, because she’d never live that down.  
The red tinge is gone from Laura’s eyes when she lets Carmilla paint a multi-colored (non-frosting) rose on her cheek that fortunately washes away in the cold surf. By the time they’re spread-eagled on the beach under the stars, Carmilla thinks it’s all but forgotten when Laura brings it up, calm, almost serene. 

“I’m not mad at him,” she says softly. “I just wish it didn’t have to be like this. I wish I could take a girl to homecoming and have him make a too-big deal of it but in the good way, and take too many pictures and warn me not to stay out too late and I wish he’d do all the things he’d do if I went with a boy.”

“I know, cupcake. I know.” Homecoming might be an absolute waste of money and time, but Laura’s always loved those sappy high school cliches too much to realize it.

She imagines it for a moment, Laura going to homecoming with a girl and her father being the Santa/Papa Bear figure he usually is, so endearing he’s even gotten through to Carmilla. Though every time she tries to picture Laura with a girl other than herself, it brings a stab of pain she wishes she could shake but knows she never will. 

July passes blissfully, like the very top of the Ferris wheel that is summer vacation, the one that, in August, will swing their spirits low to the ground again for nine months.  
They camp out on the beach to watch the fireworks, the dizzying bursts of color mirrored on the oddly still water, and, after everyone else has gone home, try to set off a few that LaFontaine rigged themselves before having to run madly for higher ground when things go very quickly wrong and their entire supply goes up in multicolored flames.  
Carmilla’s mother is, by some miracle, perpetually traveling to some conference or other, having tucked all her meticulously ironed pantsuits and jetted off to Seattle or DC or God knows where, God knows who cares. The meals she doesn’t spend with Laura consist of pantry fodder, but she’d _live_ off Top Ramen and Oreos if it meant she had the large, drafty house all to herself (and Will, though he was often away making his own stupid decisions). Things seem in a beautiful stasis for a while, and it doesn’t matter if Laura doesn’t know that Carmilla’s in love with her, because, for once, everything else seems to be okay.

 

It’s just before their sophomore year begins that something else enters their equation. Something Carmilla can’t stand, something that she knows won’t just be something for long.  
There’s a party on the beach, extending into the time of their usual wanderings, and somehow, Laura convinces her to go. There’s shitty pop music and it’s a cold night and it takes forever to get the bonfire started, but Laura seems happy, so it doesn’t really matter.  
At least until Clifford comes along.

She’s a giant mass of long legs and red hair and- _is that war paint?_ \- and Carmilla’s not sure how she found them but she’s towering over them all of a sudden, black lines across her cheeks and down her nose, gazing down at Laura.  
She introduces herself as Danny (Carmilla thinks she’ll stick to Clifford) and in a few minutes she and Laura are talking rapid-fire about something she tuned out too long ago to care about. They leave after a while, traversing the streets once again, with Clifford’s number in Laura’s phone and with her name to come up a few times in conversation.  
As for an explanation for the war paint, she never gets one.

Carmilla hates her right from that first moment, and she doesn’t quite figure out why until past midnight. They’re back in Carmilla’s room early for once, Laura’s head in her lap, watching Orange is the New Black (per Laura’s demand) on her laptop, and Carmilla’s puzzling over just why she can’t stand the newest ginger in their lives. Her typical disdain for most people doesn’t extend this far without reason, she thinks.  
And then it hits her. Sure, she’s yet another too-happy spirit, a too-bright ray of sunshine peeking into Carmilla’s darkened windows, but she _hates_ Danny for one reason.

The way she looked at Laura is exactly the same way Carmilla does (minus the war paint, of course).  
And not only does that spur hatred, but it makes her _afraid_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't guarantee the date of the next update, but hopefully winter break will allow for more (and perhaps Christmas themed...?) fluff. Until then, toodles, and feel free to leave feedback if you loved/hated/experienced otherwise intense emotions about it! (It is 1 am right now on a Monday night (Tuesday morning) and I should really be sleeping)


	4. Chapter 3: Sleepyhead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Laura fails gloriously at proper planning and Carmilla offers to help her pull an all-nighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry these first chapters are so painfully short, but I promise, they will be longer soon (song for this chapter is by Passion Pit). The two words of a song are from (what else but) Laura by PHOX.

The beginning of school manages to immediately cut short their routine. Laura, for some inexplicable reason, decides to take a few AP classes, claiming she _can handle the workload_ and that _really, it’s not that different_ , despite the warnings of everyone she knows, including Danny, who’s the AP Lit TA. The amount of textbooks she had to check out should have been an indication of what she was in for, but Laura’s convinced everything will be fine.

After the fourth day, she calls Carmilla at one in the morning.

Carmilla wakes from the absence of dreams to the insistent vibrations of her phone on the desk, an angry, hornet-like reminder that her attention is being demanded. She pushes away the tattered copy of Dante’s Inferno she’d fallen asleep reading (for the third time that week; for a book about Hell, she's finding it surprisingly uninteresting) and glances blearily at the name on her screen, though she knows perfectly well who it is already.

Laura’s in tears when she answers, and before Carmilla can think of a sarcastic greeting, she’s babbling and it takes a few moments for her to understand Laura’s words. “-and I know it’s one AM and you were asleep and I should be asleep too but there was so much work and it’s all due tomorrow, oh my god it’s all due tomorrow, and I’ve been staring at the same page for half an hour and I’ve gone through two boxes of thin mints and-”

“Cupcake, cupcake,” Carmilla cuts her off. “First step- calm down. Take some deep breaths, make some of that fancy-ass tea you like so much, and for fuck’s sake, take a break. I’ll come over if you want.”

Laura sighs heavily. There comes the faint sound of a textbook hitting the ground. “Yeah, that sounds good.” A pregnant pause. “Oh, and if you can, bring more-”

“Sugary things? Yeah, that won’t help very much in the long run, creampuff. Best if you just stick to tea for now. I’ll be there in a bit.” She plucks a previously discarded shirt from where it hangs on the doorknob (though she has no recollection of throwing it) and tugs it on (because what’s the point of wearing clothes to sleep in _California_ , honestly?) 

It's raining out, because _of course it is_ , and Carmilla is not prepared to once again brave the house, old and creaking and containing her lightly sleeping mother, just for a jacket. She crosses her arms over her chest with a huff and counts her blessings along with the raindrops.  
She wonders briefly, lit by flickering streetlamps, clothes plastered to her skin (and not in the intentional, leather way), why she does these things. She’s supposed to be broody and distant and apathetic, and Laura’s the opposite: a bundle of borderline-dangerous curiosity and too much energy and honey-blonde hair. She’s not supposed to make grand gestures or be the doting best friend or do any of the things she always finds herself doing for Laura. On the surface, it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense.  
_But you’re in love with her, idiot_ , her brain reminds her, and she doesn’t have anything sarcastic or witty for that, either.

Laura’s house looms in the darkness as Carmilla approaches, entirely dark but for the yellow glow of one second-floor window she knows to be Laura’s. She’s about to knock, pale knuckles hovering in a loose fist over the door, when she realizes that, charitable as Laura’s father usually is, he probably won’t take too kindly to Carmilla waking him up at one in the morning on a Friday (she sleepily acknowledges the humor in coming to a pastor’s home at an _ungodly_ hour).  
Instead, she wipes her rain-damp hands on her rain-damp jeans and pulls herself up to the window using the rain gutter like she’s done so many times before. It’s unlocked, and clambering through, she finds Laura curled in a ball and staring listlessly at the drywall. Her TARDIS mug sits nearby, swirls of English-Breakfast-steam curling and dissipating into the air. She sighs and wades through the papers littering the carpet, places her soaked shoes reverently out in the dark hallway. It’s going to be a long night.

And a long night it is. She sits patiently with a tissue box through several fits of tears, brought on by Gregor Mendel and Euller and Jane Austen and God knows what else, offering the rationale only someone used to long stretches of wakefulness has.  
It’s by the soft yellow lamp-glow of the bedroom, huddled in Laura’s comforter, drinking an ungodly amount of tea, fueled by the promise of Netflix at the end and a few catnaps along the way, that Carmilla coaxes Laura through her first school-oriented all-nighter.  
At around six in the morning, Laura curled against her on the floor, Carmilla accepts that wandering the streets past midnight will not be happening for at least sixteen more weeks, not when Laura is getting a minimum of five hours of homework a night. It marks the end of an era.  
It’s no longer Carmilla and Laura against the world, it’s Carmilla and Laura surrounded by gingers, idiots, and ginger idiots. And that’s not the best feeling for someone who’s in love with their best friend and maybe just a little bit desperate to occupy their attention, but she’s going to make it work. She has for years.

In a few minutes she’ll have to get up and shower (having gotten over using Laura’s shower years ago after a certain incident involving LaFontaine and their exploding paint canisters), and steal back a few articles of her clothing Laura’s acquired over time, but for now she just sits, with the girl she was stupid enough to fall in love with curled in her lap and the blanket of said girl draped over them, watching Doctor Who (she didn’t dare argue with Laura’s choices in shows at this time of night) through half-lidded eyes. 

It’s a good thing Laura falls asleep halfway through the third episode they watch, because these late nights tend to find Carmilla choked by the sort of vulnerability she doesn’t even let Laura see, and Spotify’s not being especially helpful. When PHOX begins their soft crooning, singing over and over, “ _Laura, Lauuuuura,_ ” through tinny earbud speakers, it’s just about the cruelest form of humor.  
She doesn’t have the heart (or maybe the courage) to rouse Laura until it’s nearing seven, shoving her, near-comatose, to the shower. The whole morning, the sounds of Laura whining fill her ears (and not in the good way (she’s quick to admonish herself for that thought)), and she’s just waiting for when Laura crashes, because she knows it’s going to happen (after all, caffeine can only do so much). Mentally, she hedges a bet for third period.

Surprisingly, Laura makes it to lunch that day, when she falls asleep with her head in Carmilla’s lap, much to the delight of LaFontaine, the motherly disappointment of Perry, and the veiled jealousy of Danny.  
Not that Carmilla minds. In fact, Clifford’s expression prompts a good deal of self-satisfied smirking.

 

Laura awakes with a start nearly an hour later, after everyone else has dutifully filed into the halls for fourth period. “Whutime izzit?” She yawns, and when Carmilla calmly tells her, she begins to panic. “I can’t miss class, there’s so much homework to turn in, and-” Carmilla’s hand closes around her wrist and tugs her back down. 

“Hush, cupcake. I took care of it. The gingers are turning in all your work, and they’re telling the teachers you went home sick. So really, you have no choice but to skip with me.” Laura keeps looking petulant, but says nothing.

“Come on, let’s go catch you up on your sleep. I’ll even watch Sherlock with you.” This seems to be enough for Laura, because despite her lack of sleep, she’s now the one tugging Carmilla along, saying something about Johnlock that she’s half-listening to. Nothing to distract a girl from the fact that she’s skipping class for probably the first time ever (Carmilla’s starting to see the effects of her influence on Laura) like the promise of British television.

Unsurprisingly, Laura manages to stay awake for about half of the first episode before she’s out for the next four hours. Carmilla really wishes she’d paid attention to that spiel about Johnlock, though, because _damn_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be up before Christmas (by the grace of Satan) and hopefully Christmas-themed to some degree, so if you have any yuletide Hollstein shenanigans (that may be the best phrase I've ever typed) you think should go down, pray tell (depending on my own ability to combat lethargy, I may write something separate as a gift to this lovely fandom). Thank you for continuously reading whatever the hell it is I've consigned myself to creating!


	5. Chapter 4: Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are various Yuletide Hollstein shenanigans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've reached a point now where I have the choice to make this more of a slow burn with some deeper plot in the middle or a sequence of hopeless fluff. I think I'll be going with the former (which could make for some unpleasant cliffhangers), but feel free to tell me what you think.  
> In the meantime, here's some Christmas fluff!  
> (Song title and in-chapter lyrics are from a Sleeping at Last song, and while the title's rather simple, the song was far too lovely not to title this chapter after.)

Carmilla is the human equivalent of Grumpy Cat.  
She's broody and disaffected, rebels against authority and all that jazz. Her wardrobe is 98% pitch black: punk t-shirts and leather pants and combat boots (to match her soul, of course). Small children and Twilight fanatics alike have mistaken her for a vampire, not that she's exactly eager to dispel those claims. Aloof is her middle name. Sarcasm was her first language. 

But goddamn it if she doesn't secretly **LOVE** Christmas.

She can never let anyone know, of course.  
Any respect her standoffishness has gained her over the years would be gone in an instant.  
So she's internalized it.  
Gets her Yuletide kicks via Pinterest (yet another thing no one will ever know about) and through helping Laura's family with their decorations.  
Because the Hollises never, _never_ skimp on holidays. 

 

It's four in the morning and Laura is utterly dead to the world, head in Carmilla's lap in the back of Papa Hollis's pickup. She shifts slightly under the thin blanket and Carmilla threads her fingers absentmindedly through the waves of golden-blonde hair spilled across her dark jeans.  
The stars out the window wink behind the stiff silhouettes of pines and firs as the truck winds through dark forest, high beams pushing the yawning night back a couple feet.  
The sun is rising when they finally stop in a clearing, sky bleeding in reds and purples and yellows as Carmilla gently shakes Laura's shoulders.

"Wake up, creampuff. We're here." 

The squeak of a yawn Laura lets out and the way she curls to the side before sitting up is painful in how familiar it is to Carmilla, and this pain is reduced none when Laura laces their fingers together and tugs her sleepily outside.  
Laura keeps the blanket around her shoulders as they step out, whining sleepily about the cold. Her father is bustling about by the flatbed, taking out thick coils of rope and an axe, the crunch of pine needles under his feet accompanied only by a few birds.

Laura shivers and Carmilla tugs her closer, snaking one arm under the blanket and around her waist. "This is...legal....isn't it, Mr. Hollis?" She asks, incredulous. 

He turns with a very unsure smile. "Sure it is! ...At least, I think so."  
He claps gloved hands together. "Besides, what does it matter? There's no one here. You two start looking for a good tree."

 

They wander for a while in pleasant silence, blanket still draped over Laura's shoulders, hands still swinging between them. Most of the trees around are far too big to either fit in the house or onto the truck, and so they wander deeper in search of something manageable.

"This one!" Laura crows triumphantly, tugging Carmilla along with her towards it.  
It's at least 8 feet tall, if not 9, towering over the both of them. She has to admit, it's a very nice tree, but she has no idea if they'll be able to get it back to the house in one piece.  
All the same, she huffs out a relenting sigh and goes to fetch Laura's dad. 

By the time they find the tree again, Laura sitting in a blanketed ball at the base, the sun is beginning to crest the treeline, which is a very bad sign considering this area is a national park.  
Mr. Hollis glances dubiously up at the tree. "Um, Laura- "

"It'll fit in the living room." She says adamantly, holding out a tape measure like a badge.  
"I measured it."

The skeptical look doesn't leave his face, but he starts attempting to cut it down with the axe, which is seeming a whole lot smaller now.  
After several terse minutes, it finally topples back with a deafeningly loud crack and Carmilla is worried Laura's father is going to throw his back out hauling it to the truck, but somehow they manage to bring it back.

It takes all the rope Laura's father brought to secure it to the truck, and even with his best efforts, the top still lists horribly to the side and the scrape of needles and branches on metal isn't exactly the most pleasant sound.  
But Laura still proclaims it perfect and so they pile back into the truck before a park ranger can find and possibly arrest them.  
Because when Laura Hollis calls something perfect, no one, not her father nor her pining best friend, ever says otherwise.

It falls off before they get home.

 

Just before the town limit, the pickup takes a particularly sharp left turn and they hear two things- first, ropes snapping, and then a massive screech. Through the open window come the soft sounds of the tree hitting the sand as it bounces down the hill and towards the water.

Laura wakes with a start as her father sighs and looks for somewhere to park, blinking blearily up at Carmilla. "What was that?" 

"Just the sound of hopes dying, cupcake. Go back to sleep."

Five minutes later, all three are standing around the tree, partially buried in wet sand as the tide slowly creeps further up the beach, trying to touch the needles and their shoes with cold fingers.

"Cupcake," Carmilla says slowly, prodding the tree with a boot, "I think this may be a sign."

"Nonsense!" Laura exclaims. "It's still together, isn't it?"

"The ropes are snapped and we don't have enough to tie it to the truck again," Laura's father supplies. 

"We can carry it then!" Laura is refusing to be anything but optimistic. "Look, we're almost there!"

And that's how Carmilla ends up hauling a massive (illegally acquired) tree with Laura for a mile down the beach and back to the house while Laura's father takes the truck.  
It's a really good thing she likes Christmas, she thinks, otherwise she wouldn't be doing this.  
But then she glances over at Laura, determinedly trudging through the sand ahead of her, blanket still around her shoulders.  
Yeah, she would. 

By the time they reach the front door, Laura's nearly panting. She collapses on the couch once the tree is through the door and Carmilla lets her sleep while she begins to fiddle with snarls of multicolored lights. She lets an embarrassingly wide grin slide onto her face once she starts looping them around the tree, because she’s been waiting all year for this. 

It's dark when she wakes Laura up (for the third time today) and the tree's very nearly complete, finally vertical once again. She admires her handiwork for a moment, the soft glow of two hundred or so lights dancing off slowly spinning ornaments and onto the floor, before tiptoeing to the couch. 

“Laura,” she half-whispers, half-hisses, “wake up. I saved you the last decoration.”

She reverently takes out the glass star and hands it over to Laura, who’s gazing over at the tree, sleep-addled but still amazed. “Carm, it’s beautiful,” she murmurs.

“Thanks, creampuff, but it’s not done yet.” She takes Laura by the hand over to the tree. “One last piece.” She bends at the knees and gestures at her, wincing slightly because that trek back along the beach really had done a number. “Up you go; despite your best efforts, cupcake, I don’t think you’ll be able to get that onto something twice as tall as yourself.”

Laura’s still sleepy, which doesn’t make much sense considering how much she’s slept in the last twenty-four hours. Still, she clambers onto Carmilla’s back, grumbling something about being over five feet tall. 

She reaches up over their heads and places the star delicately at the crown of the tree. When she adjusts it, it fits perfectly, completely bridging the miniscule space between ceiling and treetop, and Carmilla almost laughs. Instead she lets Laura down and lets her tug her up to her bedroom, lets her push her down onto the duvet and curl up against her like some cat. 

“Merry Christmas, Carm,” Laura whispers, lips ghosting across her collarbone in the darkness.

Carmilla pulls her a bit closer and grins into her hair. “It’s not Christmas yet, cupcake.”

“Merry December _twenty-something_ , then.” 

“Merry December twenty-something to you, too.”

-

Christmas Eve in a beach town isn’t so bad, Carmilla thinks. The shops and palm trees lining the sidewalks are strewn with lights and there’s even a massive tree downtown. Laura’s dug up Santa hats for both of them to wear, and she giggles when Carmilla plucks some garland off a nearby lamp-post and winds it around her neck like a scarf.  
They stop by the Wallflower to find Perry and LaFontaine up to their eyes in gingerbread, more and more emerging from the kitchen every minute. “We’re going to build a castle,” LaFontaine explains, a frosting bag in one hand and what appear to be gingerbread bricks in the other, “and then we’ll auction it off tomorrow.”

Perry walks by and sets down an industrial-sized bag full peppermints. “Sweetie, we’re closed tomorrow,” she says, one hand on their shoulder. 

“Oh, right.” They shrug. “I guess we’ll just have to eat it then.”

Perry forces a few pieces of gingerbread into Laura’s hands on their way out the door. “Please, just take it. I’m worried about them.” She glances back at LaFontaine. “Dear, how much have you eaten?”

“A truly alarming quantity,” they yell back, voice muffled.

Perry sighs. “I’ll deal with…. _this _. You two have fun!”__

__They stroll mindlessly for an hour or two, and Carmilla’s hopelessly reminded of the way they were, wandering the streets at night, fingers interlaced, full of comfortable silence and too-full glances.  
Some slow Christmas song is playing as they reach the square for what is probably the fourth time. It’s something heartbreakingly lovely that Carmilla’s never heard before, making her heart hurt just a little as they stroll into the center of town._ _

_____Let our bells keep on ringing_  
_Making angels in the snow_  
_May the melody disarm us_  
_When the cracks begin to show_

_____Like the petals in our pockets_  
_May we remember who we are_  
_Unconditionally cared for_  
_By those who share our broken hearts_

__Carmilla decides to do something fairly stupid and tugs her into the clearing next to the tree, pulling them flush together with the hand not holding hers. Laura squeaks like the human dormouse she is before curling one hand in the shoulder of Carmilla’s coat._ _

__Carmilla presses the hand on the small of Laura’s back more firmly against her when she dips her backward before pulling her back up and spinning her suddenly as the song fades. “Having fun, cutie?” She murmurs, grinning at the tinge Laura’s cheeks have taken on. Her hands slide to Laura’s waist when she smiles back._ _

__And then Laura glances up. “Look!”  
Above their heads, tied to one of the infernal palm trees, is a small bundle of dark green leaves dotted with white berries. “Mistletoe,” she breathes, and Carmilla’s hands still at her waist._ _

__There’s a beat of supercharged silence.  
And then Carmilla Karnstein, broody, disaffected, hopelessly pining best-friend extraordinaire, finds herself kissing Laura Hollis in what is probably the biggest cliche of her life. All they’re missing is the snow. She doesn’t have the higher brain function to process this, though, because Laura’s hands are fisting in her lapels and her eyes flutter closed like butterfly’s wings against her cheeks. She tastes like gingerbread. She tastes like _home_._ _

__And then her hand trails back along Carmilla’s arm to interlace their fingers again, and she’s tugging Carmilla along behind her homeward, Carmilla’s cheeks nearly matching her hat.  
She _really_ hopes she isn’t imagining the newfound bounce in Laura’s step._ _

__

__The house is dark when Laura cracks open the door.  
They ascend the stairs slowly, silently, and sneak back to Laura’s room. Carmilla catches a glimpse of the oven clock- **12:03**._ _

__She sits in a daze on Laura’s bed until Laura sidles in next to her and tugs her under the covers, the way they always end up, the way she wishes it always could be.  
Laura’s nose is pressed at the base of her throat and it feels just like it always does, while at the same time so different- because less than an hour ago Laura _kissed_ her and neither of them are saying anything. But she lets it go for now, because they're still here, curled up together in Laura's bed, and that's enough for now._ _

__“Merry actual Christmas,” Laura says._ _

__Carmilla turns her head to press a kiss to her temple.  
“Merry actual Christmas, cupcake.”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, lovelies (yes, I know it's in two days)!  
> Hope you're enjoying so far, and feel free to leave feedback. 
> 
> Hopefully, the next chapter will be up without any major delays.


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